by Simon Bourke
2.
He might have spent his nights fantasising about killing his stepfather in cold blood, but when it came to his education Seán was under no illusions. The Junior Cert was just months away, and he was going to fail it, and fail it miserably. But it didn’t bother him in the slightest. His enthusiasm for school and his studies had begun to wane at the first signs of puberty. The hairier his balls grew, the lower his grades went; he was no mathematician, but that was one equation he could fully understand. It wasn’t that he was too busy chasing girls to bother with school. He did have the occasional fumble here and there. It ran deeper than that. He became self-aware, looked inwards and didn’t like what he saw: someone shameful, an embarrassment to others. He didn’t have a father, didn’t even know the man. Seán had never questioned his mother on his origins, but he’d picked up bits here and there from other members of the family. He’d been an accident, a mishap; she’d had to leave the country because of him. His father hadn’t been interested and had bailed as soon as he’d found out. Instead Seán got Daryl; a man who reminded him every day that he wasn’t wanted, that he’d never been wanted and that he was doing him a favour by allowing him to live with them.
He looked around the room at his classmates; they all seemed different to him. They spoke of Mam and Dad and cars and family nights out. They had money to spend at lunchtime and got nice sandwiches packed neatly in proper lunchboxes, with an apple wrapped in cellophane or sometimes an orange, and a mini-treat. He got a couple of hastily-arranged cheese singles, or some luncheon meat, on the cheapest bread available. Was he poor? In comparison to his classmates, he seemed to be. Daryl worked on and off at the same factory he’d been employed in for years, an injury sustained on the job preventing him from working full-time. Seán never asked questions, but to his mind the injury was fabricated and Daryl was simply skiving; not that it mattered to Seán, since any money that his stepfather made had nothing to do with him, as he’d been told often enough. His mother worked at the pub, but any money she made probably found its way back behind the bar between the two of them. They weren’t alcoholics, or he didn’t think they were, but they were out three or four nights a week. There wasn’t enough money for him to go to the chipper at lunch-time, but enough to spend on booze.
There were other kids worse off than him at his school, the really poor kids who reeked of poverty. Most of these were in the lower strands, however, and hadn’t yet progressed beyond long division and the twelve-times tables. By virtue of a strong entrance exam, Seán had found himself in the top echelon of his year, alongside more privileged children from well-to-do families. At the start he was just like them, a bright and intelligent young scholar, blissfully unaware of how different he really was; however, that changed sometime in the summer between his first and second year. He began to doubt himself and retreated into his shell, fearful of making mistakes. Teachers would ask him questions in class and eagerly await an insightful response from one of their best pupils, but what they got was sullen silence. These excruciating interludes were usually broken by one of Seán’s friends coming to the rescue with an answer. Cheers, man, he’d whisper as the disappointed teacher moved on to their next victim. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the answer – he often did, even without studying the subject or doing any homework – it was that he was terrified of making a fool of himself by saying the wrong thing. What if he got it completely wrong? The whole room would erupt into laughter, including the teacher, and they’d all point and stare at the stupid McLoughlin boy and his shitty cheese sandwiches. So he chose silence as the safest option. And that was how he intended to see out his schooldays. He wouldn’t be any trouble; he’d sit at the back of the class minding his own business, and hope to see it through to the end with as little embarrassment as possible. A couple of his teachers tried to encourage him. “Come on, Seán,” they’d say, “you’re better than this.” Nah, I’m really not, he’d think as he sat there in silence. Just leave me be. In time, they did leave him be, recognising him for what he was: a lost cause. He was just another student who had threatened to fulfil his promise but in the end chose not to. They’d seen it before, and they knew better than to waste their time on him when other, more willing pupils needed their attention.
And he would have seen out his years in the back of the class, not bothering anyone, were it not for his report cards. He could hide from his teachers all he liked, but once those exam results came through the letterbox there was nowhere to run. From the moment they broke off for the holidays at the end of each term, he waited for his results to arrive. He listened out for the postman every morning, dreading the sound of his hurrying footsteps as he approached their door and deposited his foul load. Seán had learned to recognise how it sounded when it came through the letterbox; running to check, still in his underwear, he leafed through the bills and junk until he found the offending object. It came in a grey envelope, always a grey envelope, and had the school’s crest emblazoned on the top-left hand corner: Mrs. S. Cassidy, 20 Grange Manor, Dooncurra. That was it. He was dressed and out the door within minutes. Let them digest the news for a few hours, maybe they’ll cool down a bit. That was his only hope.
But eventually, driven back by hunger, he’d return to face the music. His mother would reason with him. “Seán, what’s going on?” she’d ask. “These are terrible marks, and you used to be so good.” What’s going on? Look around you. Look at the man you married, how he treats your son. But he just looked at her sadly, mumbled something about trying harder next year and waited for her to stop talking. Then it was Daryl’s turn. “This is fuckin’ disgraceful,” he’d rage, waving the papers in his hand. “He’s changing schools.” Seán thought this rich coming from a man who hadn’t even attended secondary school. How could he rant and rave about Seán’s shortcomings when his own education had barely progressed beyond learning his ABC? And why did he suddenly care so much about Seán’s future? The truth was, he didn’t; he just saw the arrival of those papers as another stick to beat him with, a way of putting him down. He was probably secretly thrilled by his demise. He’d dragged him down to his level. Maybe one day they could learn the ABC together, get drunk and fight afterwards. He’d like that.
Seán was performing poorly in almost every subject, but he reserved special levels of ineptitude for maths. Failing it in both his Christmas and summer exams in second year, he’d taken it up a notch in third year. An ‘NG’ – No Grade. That’s what had stood glumly beside the word ‘Mathematics’ in his Christmas report card. He knew he had to knuckle down if he were ever to pass the subject in his Junior Cert, but that would require effort, hard work and dedication, and he didn’t like the sound of that. It was far easier to sit at the rear of the class and stare at the back of Rosie Power’s head. That’s what he was doing now, all the while praying that Mr. Sheehan had forgotten about last night’s homework. In truth this would be unprecedented, Mr. Sheehan had never forgotten about the homework before. But there was a first time for everything.
Seán had briefly considered actually doing his homework. He’d flipped open his maths book with serious intent; this would be the night he would finally crack trigonometry. How hard could it be? A few equations and the like. Surely anyone could do it, even him? Then he’d taken one look at the assorted diagrams, numbers and letters and decided to leave it for another night. Sure ‘twas only the Junior Cert; everyone knew it didn’t really matter.
But as he sat in class, sweating it out, he wished he’d at least made a token effort. He hadn’t even had time to copy from the lads when he’d got in that morning, so he had nothing, just a blank page. Soon Mr. Sheehan would go around collecting the homework and Seán would be in deep shit. Until then, though, he was content to stare at Rosie’s head. He didn’t fancy Rosie or anything like that, her head just happened to be in front of him so he chose to look at it for a while. He’d give her one, no doubt about that, but she was too much of a culchie for him; she had bi
g rosy red cheeks and hair the colour and texture of straw. She was tall and rather stout, a bit burly perhaps, but with an innate femininity; in other words, she had massive tits. Tits that she kept under wraps for most of the school year, but when the weather got warm in late spring, the girls would take off their jumpers to reveal crisp white blouses; under these lay bras and in some cases breasts. Rosie’s were the biggest in the class, at least a DD by Seán’s reckoning – he didn’t know how cup-size was measured but a DD seemed about right. They tried to make Rosie run so they could see her breasts jiggle up and down, and sometimes the braver lads pinged her bra strap and then sprang out of her reach, cackling manically. Seán never pinged Rosie’s bra strap, or any bra-strap, for that matter. He just checked them out. All of them, not just Rosie’s. He wondered what they’d be like, these breasts, if they were freed from their constraints, bare and naked, at his mercy. He daydreamed in class, concocting complex scenarios where he stripped them all down to their knickers, sucked each and every one of their tits, before flipping them round and wanking off onto their arses. Today, though, he wasn’t dreaming of Rosie’s tits or any arse-wanking scenarios. He was simply looking at her hair and the way it scrunched up at the top before falling down about her shoulders. How did she get it like that? Why did young wans go to such lengths to style their hair, when it was much nicer long and flowing? That was what he preferred: a natural beauty with long, silky hair cascading down her bare neck and naked shoulders.
That set him off. He began constructing a plot where he was looking for summer work out in the countryside. It was a blazing hot day, and he’d walked for miles. He was well outside Dooncurra, in a part of the countryside he’d never seen before. He hadn’t seen a car in ages, and he’d passed the last house at least an hour ago. It was the middle of nowhere and he was stranded. He was just about to turn back and begin the long walk home, when he came to a quaint little two-storey building with a small red tractor in the yard. He’d try this place, and if there were no jobs to be had he’d forget about it. Knocking on the door, he was surprised to see it was Rosie, his classmate, with the big tits, who answered. “Seán,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
She wore a light summer dress with a plunging neckline and short hem, and her hair was suitably long and flowing.
If this situation had occurred in real life, Seán would most likely have flushed bright red, stammered, “Any jobs going?” and then cursed himself for being such a loser as Rosie went off to find her father. This was make-believe, though, and he was in charge of what happened.
“Oh, hi, Rosie,” he said, with his most winning smile – that famous McLoughlin smile, have that Rosie, ya big-titted bitch. “I was just wondering if there’s any work going on the farm for the summer? I’m hoping to go to the Reading festival in August and I’m looking to make some cash.” The Reading festival – as if. He’d be lucky to get to the circus, which rolled into town for two weeks every summer.
“Oh, Reading, wow!” Rosie cooed, clearly impressed. “My dad’s not in right now, but I’ve been doing some work in the hay-barn which you’re welcome to help me with.”
He followed her through the house and out into the yard. There wasn’t a soul in sight, the only sound the distant hum of machinery as crops were harvested by faraway farmers. She showed him into the cavernous barn, leading him to its lower end, away from prying eyes.
“Just here,” she said, taking him by the hand. She shot him a meaningful stare, before lying down on the straw, her hair merging with the golden hay until it looked like her head was just floating in the air. Then she slowly parted her legs, revealing her bare crotch and more straw-like hair. Savouring the moment, Seán stood over her and said – “McLOUGHLIN, ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?”
He was dragged unceremoniously from the barn and Rosie’s crotch right back into maths class. All he had now was a raging erection and an irate middle-aged man standing over him.
“Sir,” he replied weakly.
“Sir, what? ‘Sir, I am listening’ or ‘Sir, what the hell are you talking about?’”
Seán considered his options, and quickly came to the conclusion that he had none.
“Um, what are you talking about, sir?”
Mr. Sheehan slammed his fist down onto Seán’s desk. The whole class took a collective intake of breath and settled in for the show.
“I ask the questions around here, McLoughlin!” Mr. Sheehan bellowed. Like all the teachers, he had a habit of dragging out these public floggings. Just cut to the chase and be done with it, thought Seán as he stared directly ahead, painfully aware that every set of eyes in the room was trained on him. Enjoying yourselves, are ye, lads? Yeah, lap it up while you can. Wankers!
All he could do now was try to limit the damage. He’d been caught on the hop though, with no time to prepare an excuse. Perhaps honesty would work; he’d never tried it before, but it was worth a shot.
“I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t listening to you for a minute there.”
“A minute? A MINUTE?” shrieked Sheehan, who was laughing now; but it wasn’t a good-natured laugh, it was the laugh of a man with bad intentions.
“I’ve been watching you since the start of class, sitting there gazing at the back of Rosie’s head with a big dopey look on your face.”
This set off a few guffaws from the gallery. Now he was going to be slagged about fancying Rosie Power too.
Sheehan was warming to his theme, playing up to the audience.
“Just what is it about Rosie’s head that so fascinates you, McLoughlin? Is it her lovely blonde hair? Is that it?”
Seán looked up at him. Smirking little prick; fat, middle-aged balding wanker. So smug, so self-satisfied, enjoying his little power-trip, showing off in front of the rest of the class. Just another pathetic excuse for a man, someone who has to pick on a kid to make himself feel big.
“Oh do fuck off,” he replied witheringly.
The guffaws were replaced by gasps; eyebrows were raised, mouths gaped open, one of the more delicate girls appeared on the verge of tears.
Sheehan recoiled in horror, the wind taken out of his sails.
“What did you say, McLoughlin? What did you say?” he asked querulously.
Christ, what a soft little shite.
“You heard me,” he replied firmly. “Fuck off.”
He stood up to face his oppressor. There was nothing threatening in his movement; he didn’t even know why he had stood up. But the teacher instantly backed off, his body tensed as if expecting to be struck at any moment.
“FUCK OFF,” Seán said one last time, enunciating each word clearly in case there was any doubt as to the message he was trying to convey.
He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and his bag from under the table and slung them both over his shoulder. Not stopping, for fear of changing his mind, he brushed past him, exited the room and disappeared down the hallway. Mr. Sheehan watched him go, dabbing at his forehead with a hankie. A couple of the other students, infused with rebellious spirit, considered following Seán, but quickly came to their senses. After all, the headmaster would be here soon.
3
Why had he done that? He really had no idea; it had just happened. He hadn’t been in a bad mood. There was nothing playing on his mind. It had just been an ordinary day and an ordinary encounter with one of his most ordinary teachers, but something inside him had snapped. Maybe this was to be the start of something, a one-man uprising. He would become someone not to be trifled with. A dangerous individual. He didn’t really want that though, to be that disaffected kid sticking two fingers up at society, railing against injustices and fighting the powers-that-be. He just wanted to be left in peace. Mr. Sheehan was probably nice enough away from school; a father with a modest house, good kids, and maybe a little dog, a garden.; a simple life, made possible by teaching maths to ungrateful shits like Seán. B
ut he had come at Seán in a way that had left him with no other choice. He had set out to embarrass him, to make a fool of him. It wasn’t enough to just deliver a simple reprimand and be done with it; he’d had to push it. And now look what had happened. There was no coming back from this one. Seán didn’t even want to think of the consequences.
As soon as he’d left the classroom his brain went into survival mode; he had to get off the school grounds, and quickly. Once Sheehan raised the alarm they’d be after him in a shot. If he didn’t move fast he’d be dragged back within minutes, kicking and screaming.
There were two main entrances used by the students: the front door, flanked by the headmaster’s office, and a smaller side entrance which led to the bike-shed. He wasn’t going to use either of those. To do so would be to risk immediate capture. Instead he headed toward the back of the building, beyond the area permitted for student use and down a dark corridor towards the maintenance and utility rooms. He wasn’t supposed to be down here, but he couldn’t get into much more trouble anyway. The object of his desire lay at the end of the corridor, an emergency exit which would put him onto the edge of the school’s playing fields; from there he could run fifty yards to the wall which separated the school from the railway track. It was a high wall, and one which he’d never scaled unaided, but he’d have to trust his athletic abilities and hope for the best. Once on the track he would be home free. There was no near access to it by foot, and Mr. Sheehan would never be able to climb the wall – nor would any of the teachers for that matter.